


the end of the world tour

by Ruriruri



Category: KISS (Comics), KISS (US Band), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-05-19 22:09:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19364884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruriruri/pseuds/Ruriruri
Summary: "C’mon, you’re saying we should just waltz right in to their place and tell them what, exactly? ‘Hi, we’re KISS. We haven’t done anything heroic in forty years, but—’”“I wouldn’t say we haven’t done anything heroic in forty years. We all got married.”Four washed-up former rockstar superheroes don the spandex of old in a last-ditch effort to save an already half-gone world. They just need a little  support from a billionaire who's not too keen on KISS interrupting his private life. Somewhat Endgame compliant.





	1. some habits that you just can't lose

**Author's Note:**

> KISS has been a part of Marvel Comics since 1977, and, in fact, starred in Marvel’s first full-color, magazine-sized comic book from that same year (in an infamous publicity stunt, the band members added their own blood to the ink of the first issue). Their characterization, history, and powers vary from run to run, and to be honest, it was easier just to pull from KISS Meets the Phantom of the Park and a bit of Scooby-Doo Meets KISS for powers, and actual band history for most of the rest. (Pulling from comic history, well, would have entailed messily trying to make canon ’70’s teamups with Spider-man and the Avengers work out with MCU—impractical at best!) Mistakes are mine.

Looking back, the signs had been there all along. The KISS memorabilia starting to spread out like a fungus to all parts of the mansion they’d moved into five years prior. The cold cream that had found its way back to the bathroom counters.

The abrupt shift in mood of half the household.

The gloomier half. Except that wasn’t much of a specification. Ace tried to be upbeat, but he spent the bulk of his time alone, tinkering with the fifty-year-old remnants of his spaceship, though each assurance that he was going back to Jendell (“you guys’ll come with me, it’ll be great, we’ll just stay there forever”) seemed hollower with every passing year. Gene had put on an incredibly gutsy show in public for the first several months after the decimation, donating millions to clean up efforts around the greater New York area, only to falter in private. Paul had only started recovering enough to shave regularly over the past six or seven months.

Peter wasn’t in great shape himself. He knew it, too. But he was surviving. They were all doing that much. They had a daily routine down, one they stuck to as strictly as cloistered monks. Cooking duties divvied up; chores divvied up. Shopping divvied up. They could’ve hired help easily. The battered remnants of the KISS juggernaut were still enough for generations to live off of, like a bastard version of the Vanderbilts. But doing the chores themselves gave everything a sense of purpose. Meaning.

They weren’t doing poorly for four widowers. Coping a whole lot better than most guys their age who’d lost everyone but each other.

Deep down, Peter knew they couldn’t have made it any other way. They would’ve all been driven out of their minds with grief. Just cracked up. Especially those first few months after moving in together. In a sick kind of desperation, they’d spent that time sleeping in the basement together, the four of them, on a pair of pull-out couches. The prospect of waking up alone was just that awful. The craving for normalcy just that deep. Waking up to Ace’s morning wood (Christ, the guy was sixty-eight; his ability to maintain a hard-on had to just be alien biology at this point) had become a strange, nostalgic kind of comfort.

They were still sharing rooms sometimes. It felt really juvenile, at least to Peter, crawling into one of the other guys’ rooms at night, like a kid with a nightmare, but it helped. Touch helped. Living together brought them some focus beyond themselves. Forced them to look out for each other. Keep each other from doing something stupid. Funny how without any contract or tour bullshit to worry about, they could stand each other again.

Sometimes a little more than that. Sometimes a lot.

But Peter really didn’t connect the dots for awhile. One morning, he stumbled downstairs to see Paul making pancakes from scratch. He hadn’t made any pretenses of being a chef in years, but there he was, even tossing chocolate chips and strawberries into the batter.

“I decided every day was a good day,” he said, shrugging, when Peter asked him about it.

“He got laid,” Ace had called out from the living room. Peter, staring from an abashed Paul to an oddly-silent Gene, hadn’t asked for any elaboration, figuring he had a fair idea. Well, whatever. If they wanted to go back to fooling around with each other at this late a date, at least there was plenty of Viagra and K-Y to be had.

A few days later, Gene bought about three gallons of ice cream, an exorbitant amount of toppings, and a stash of his Moneybags signature root beer and they all spent the afternoon making and devouring sundaes and floats. Nobody bitched about lactose intolerance. Then they’d sat around and watched Godzilla movies on DVD and played each other on the old KISS pinball machine. It was like old times—really old times.

Peter had just figured things were finally starting to settle into a new normal. A devastating normal, sure, but they were all learning to cope.

He had no idea the coping methods they’d picked involved a lot more than self-help platitudes and dairy products, and a lot less Viagra.

Not until about a month later, on his assigned day to do the shopping—though they were all more flexible on who did the shopping than any other aspect of their chore board. Paul still hated to go anywhere by himself, invariably dragging someone else with him. Usually Gene, sometimes Ace. On his own days, Peter usually tried to invite Ace along, just to get him out of the backyard, even though Ace’s penchant for Arizona Green Tea still far outstripped the supply at the closest grocery store, and Peter would still have to make a dozen weird maneuvers around the place just so they’d avoid the liquor.

This time, though, Peter went alone. Stuffed the old Porsche full of a mix of canned and dried goods, mostly. Still the easiest, cheapest stuff to find, with or without the world half-gone. Almost bizarre to see things start to get in demand again. The first few days—the first few months, after, the grocery store had been hell to go to. Just the smell of all that food rotting for want of people to buy it. The look of it, mold everywhere, flies buzzing, maggots crawling—and not as many as all that.

A fifty-fifty split in all forms of life. Existence was just a coin toss.

He’d pulled into the driveway and gotten out, lugging a couple grocery bags out with him as he headed toward the door, pushing the doorbell with his elbow. No answer.

Another push. Nothing.

Ace was probably out back somewhere. Paul and Gene were probably upstairs, too close to deaf to have heard him away from the main floor. Goddammit. Peter sighed and set down one of the grocery bags, digging through his pockets for the house key, pulling it out and unlocking the door, only to be greeted by an odd, clinking sound and a low groan as he stepped inside.

“Gene?”

Peter dropped the grocery bags and hurried towards the noise, mouth pursed. No panicking. He couldn’t afford to panic. Still, it could be anything. Gene never had taken care of himself that well—sure, he’d never done drugs, but he had the diet of an emancipated six-year-old—prime candidate for a heart attack, for sure—

“…. What’re you…”

“Peter?”

Gene was lying on his back on the kitchen tile, mostly-obscured by the girl straddling him. She was leaning forward, blonde hair like streamers over his face as she kissed him, his hands clasping her wrists, holding them above his head, against the floor. Her white dress was bunched up enough it was obvious there was nothing beneath.

It was a scene Peter had first witnessed out of Gene around 1974, and it hadn’t gotten any more appealing in forty-five years. Just a lot more curious. No, fucking bewildering. Normally, Gene was—had been—infamous for stripping off as few clothes as possible in his rush to get to the main event. It was like the man thought a groupie couldn’t wait for him to get his jeans more than five inches past his hips. But this time was beyond bizarre. Gene wasn’t in his usual jeans and cowboy boots and button-down. He was in costume.

More specifically, he was in every ignoble inch of his Destroyer costume, except for the codpiece. His black leotard was hiked down to the tops of his scaly, silver monster boots, chest armor stretched over his torso, black leather gauntlets on. The last time Peter had seen any of that particular outfit, Clinton was still president.

The blonde gave him a brief look, then Gene, who whispered something Peter couldn’t quite hear. Then she started rolling her hips against his again, Gene dropping his hold on her wrists to cup his hands around her face, her hair sweeping over them both, preventing Peter from getting a great look at either of them. Peter just stared, unsure of whether his eyes could afford a closer vantage point.

“Really, Gene?”

“I’m—ngh, doing my duty as an American citizen here.”

“Your duty?”

“FER. Federal Emergency Repopulation.” Gene paused, glancing at the blonde. “If he’s bothering you, we can take it upstairs—"

“Jesus Christ, Gene, you’re seventy years old! And why the fuck are you in the costume?”

“Well, that aspect wasn’t really up to me.”

“Gene, sit the fuck up and look at me.”

“Peter—”

Gene raised up a few inches as every bit of color drained out from Peter’s face.

He looked better than he had in forty years. No, that wasn’t right. He _looked_ like he had forty years ago. The Demon makeup couldn’t obscure it. The lines around his eyes and forehead were gone. The fullness that age and weight had left in his face and neck and chest had vanished utterly. He looked healthy. He looked young, terrifyingly young.

“Gene, what the hell did you do?”

“I—"

Before Peter could manage a single syllable, a loud, shrill cry from upstairs interrupted everything.

“Paul?”

“Oh, shit. Let’s not continue this upstairs.” Gene’s attention was back on the blonde, who rolled her hips up against his invitingly. “Better check on Paul, Pe—ohh, fuck, yeah…”

Peter darted upstairs, yanking open the door to Paul’s room to find almost the exact same scenario. One he hadn’t seen in decades. Paul, halfway in costume, rhinestone-covered black jumpsuit hanging somewhere around his hips, with a girl up against the wall, her bare legs wrapped around his waist. Three hip replacements, two knee replacements, and at least one rotator cuff replacement and yet Paul didn’t seem to be having any issues holding her there. Or plowing her.

Probably because he, too, looked to be about forty years younger.

\---

Half an hour later, both girls were gone and Paul and Gene were back to a semblance of normal. The makeup had, weirdly, lingered when they’d reverted back—Peter couldn’t remember that ever happening when they were actively in the superhero business—though neither of them seemed particularly surprised by that, just a bit disappointed. Paul had darted over to the bathroom to get some cold cream and washcloths, like that would head Peter off at the pass, before returning to sit down at the table with Gene and Peter.

Peter was still fuming.

“Look, Peter, I can explain—” Gene started.

“You don’t need to. It’s obvious. You used the talismans.”

“Well, yeah.” Paul looked about as apologetic as a kid who hadn’t been caught until after eating the entire bag of Oreos.

“I didn’t know they could do that.”

“We didn’t, either.”

“Bullshit, that’s the only reason you were fucking—”

“No, really! We got them out for old time’s sake a couple months ago.”

“It makes sense, I mean, mystical artifacts from Victor Von Doom’s mom, supposed to reveal the true self of the holder…” Paul trailed.

“True self, my ass. Your true self is a bottle of Aquanet.”

Gene was starting to smirk. Paul elbowed him in the ribs.

“So you decided you were gonna use the talismans of Khyscz to make yourselves younger so you could fuck random girls. Christ. I knew you didn’t have any dignity, but—” Peter paused, unsure of how to even state the rest of his tirade. For once.

It was just too damn bizarre. They’d left that shit behind years ago. _Decades_ ago. Their last real superhero stints had been in cancer wards, letting kids with lymphoma and leukemia jam with them from their beds and wheelchairs. Their first had been—well, they’d caught some burglars in the Bronx and Queens a couple of times, between band practice, before they were even signed to a record company. Once they’d started touring, they’d tried to keep the double lives up, and for awhile, it had worked to their advantage. People didn’t know whether seeing KISS on the street meant a concert was coming to town or a gang was about to get busted. And the merchandising…. Christ, what a frenzy. The public had eaten it up. Lunchboxes and the pinball machine had only been the beginning.

The biggest criminal they’d ever stopped was some amusement park tyrant, Abner Devereaux. Naturally, they’d turned it into a movie a year later. Hadn’t even been allowed to put most of their powers on display for fear of wrecking the sets and camera equipment. Paul couldn’t fire off any laser beams; Ace’s teleporting barely got a mention. Peter was lucky they didn’t try to trim his claws down. Even Gene’s fire-breathing had to be faked for the camera. He’d had to swill kerosene in his mouth and just spit at the torch like he was from the circus.

Really humiliating, looking back, but they hadn’t quite realized it. The movie had seemed like a natural next step. They were giving the fans what they wanted. A superhero group that could do anything, be anything. Role models. Rockstars. Sex symbols. Entrepreneurs. The four most recognizable faces in the world, faces of a corporation worth a hundred million. Not bad for 1978. Not Stark Industries levels, but not bad.

But the movie had started the blowback. No one under twelve even watched the damn thing. The press was coming out with hit pieces on the daily. Headlines like “Shilling Superheroes” and “Crimefighting Doesn’t Pay—But Capitalism Does” started dotting the supermarket stands. When they retreated back into making records, the bottom had already dropped out. KISS didn’t come off as superheroes or even musicians anymore, just a bunch of guys out for a quick buck. No amount of charity work—and certainly not a long stretch of tail-between-their-legs touring in Australia and Europe, where their superhero antics weren’t as big a part of their mystique—could’ve brought them back from that.

Peter had left KISS before things completely crashed. Been fired, more accurately. What that’d mean for the dwindling state of their superhero gig should’ve been obvious, but looking back, Peter couldn’t remember thinking about it or anyone even mentioning it when he’d left. Ace hadn’t talked about it when he quit the band a couple years later, either. KISS still performed with the outfits and makeup for awhile after. But the crimefighting was over. Any superhuman powers were done with. Gene ended up having to spit kerosene to breathe fire onstage for the rest of his career. The talismans just wouldn’t work without the four of them as some kind of unit.

Apparently, their current living arrangement counted as some kind of unit. Good enough for the talismans. And apparently, the talismans didn’t even care whether Paul and Gene were using them for the right reasons. Peter shoved his hands through his hair before slamming his palm against the table. True to form, Paul and Gene didn’t even blink. Gene, in fact, took it as an opportunity to continue.

“We thought it’d be a better sell to FER if we could offer them something a little more exciting than—”

            “Than a bunch of old assholes.”

            “More or less, yeah.” Paul rubbed at the star on his eye with a dollop of cold cream, carefully. “It’s not any kind of PR stunt. Just makes for better lays and healthier sperm.”

            “We’ve had 53 successful pregnancies just over the last two months,” Gene offered. His phone buzzed, and he picked it up. “Make that 54.”

            “54? Was that mine or yours?”

“Mine. That was, uh…” Gene scrolled up on his phone. “Tori Friedmann. Remember, the one with the tattoos right around her hips?”

“Gene, I didn’t see her anywhere near naked.”

“She had her hair dyed green. It was in ringlets.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah…” Paul trailed, before turning his attention back to Peter. “We’re really helping things out.”

“Helping things out?” Gene snorted. “Don’t be modest. We’ve got the best track record for pregnancies in the entire state of Connecticut. Eighty percent success rate after four sessions or less. Amazing.”

“Who’s supposed to be raising—” Peter started, but he was cut off almost immediately by a laugh.

“Seriously? The government’s paying the girls out the nose. Prenatal up through college. All we had to do was participate.” Gene shifted, pushed his washcloth into the jar of cold cream, and started wiping off his face. “Of course, FER pays the guys doing it, too, but it’s not our main motivation.”

“Why the hell aren’t you jacking it into a cup? What’s so wrong about artificial insemination? Is FER Catholic?”

“This world’s starved for the human touch. Sex drives are lower than the Dow right now.” Gene cleared his throat, tilted his head as if he were about to start on an interview-worthy set of sound bites. “Now, what we’re offering is only what KISS has always offered, an escape, a fantasy. But we sell it better than any fucking band before or since. We lift those girls up.”

“Yeah, I saw Paul lifting that girl up—” Peter started. Paul looked only a tinge embarrassed. “You could’ve been her grandfather, for Christ’s sake.”

“Hey, they know exactly who they’re getting with,” said Gene. “We aren’t pretending we’re a tribute band. And we cheer them up, Peter. Some of them haven’t slept with anyone in five years. Some of them haven’t _touched_ anyone in five years. They forgot how to even be alive. We’re reminding them.”

“You’re selling your sperm, Gene, don’t act like it’s some grand gesture.” Peter paused. “Is Ace in on this, too?”

“I think Ace got in about four lays, but then he felt bad about it…”

“Because he’s got a conscience?”

“No, because he’s an alien. I mean, the girls kind of got off on it, I think, but…” Paul shrugged, finding a clean corner of his washcloth, patting away the traces of cold cream. “He thought Earth ought to be repopulated by regular humans.”

“He didn’t care about that when we were touring.” God knew how many girls Ace had knocked up with half-Jendellian spawn back in the seventies. His kid with Jeanette, Monique, hadn’t ever exhibited anything weird that Peter had seen, but then again, Ace was pretty good at keeping his own alien oddities under wraps. At least in public. Online tabloids and shit still said he was a normal guy from the Bronx that had just watched too much _Star Trek_ in high school. If he hadn’t toured off and on with the guy for years, and if the remnants of his spaceship weren’t currently in their backyard, Peter might’ve believed it, too.

“Yeah, but when we were touring, the world wasn’t in an apocalypse.” Another corner of the washcloth and Paul was wiping off his eyeliner. “I dunno. I told him if they didn’t care, he shouldn’t, either. It’s not like his dick is any different.”

“He’ll change his mind. Probably.” Gene set down the washcloth, face reddish but bare. He looked so appallingly confident that Peter almost wanted to punch him. No, he did want to punch him. Clearly, the repopulation gig had been Gene’s idea. Paul was far too depressed these days to be such an opportunist on his own, and Ace… Ace, clearly, just had gone along with it. Neither of them had ever been half as desperate for a lay as Gene, either. Peter settled for pushing back his chair and leaning over the table, yanking Gene by both arms.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Pete—”

“Don’t you even remember what we were supposed to use the talismans for?”

“Sure. Saving the world.” Gene tugged his arms out of Peter’s grasp. Utterly unmoved. He didn’t even have to stand up in order to wrench him away. It just made Peter all the more incensed. The blitheness of it. Shit, Gene used to care. _Paul_ used to care.

“Fucking girls for some government program isn’t saving the world!”

“Then what the hell do you suggest? We’re a little fucking limited with half the population gone.”

“Fixing this mess!”

“How?” Paul started to laugh. “If the Avengers aren’t touching it, what makes you think we should?”

“When did that stop us before, huh? We were there before they even _existed_!”

“Most of them,” Gene put in dryly. “Captain America’s old enough that he could’ve even fathered you, Pete.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Peter rattled off. “Fuck both of you. You’ve finally got a real opportunity here and you’re too damn sorry to take it.”

“A real opportunity? You’re telling us about opportunities?” Paul snorted. “I should’ve known all you’d do was bitch and whine as soon as you found out. Mr. Misery never did fucking retire. Can’t let anybody else be even a little happy—”

“You’re not happy, asshole!”

The sound of the backdoor swinging open swallowed up any other comments. Ace, standing there in a ratty screenprinted Betty Boop t-shirt and jeans, looking sweaty and vaguely perturbed.

“Y’know, contrary to popular belief, I’m still not deaf.”

Peter spun around to face him.

“Ace! You knew what these bastards were doing this whole time and you didn’t tell me!”

Ace raised his palm in what might’ve been surrender, then shut the door behind him. He didn’t cross over to the dining room where the others were seated, surprisingly—just headed straight for the kitchen.

“Sit down, Pete. ’M gonna get us some water.”

Peter sat down. He wasn’t mollified, not in the slightest, but he stayed quiet until Ace returned, four water bottles in hand. Gene and Paul didn’t say anything, either. The only real sound was Paul screwing the lid back on the jar of cold cream.

Ace pushed a water bottle towards each of them before sitting down next to Peter. Peter eyed him warily. It felt like a band meeting, the tension thick as concrete, only for once, they weren’t arguing over solos or setlists. And Bill Aucoin, of course, wasn’t there to make sure they shook hands and shared a joint by the end. Not quite the kind of nostalgia Peter craved.

“Okay, so,” Ace started, conversationally, “I get why you’re pissed off, man.”

“You should’ve told me—”

“I tried! I told you Paul got laid! But you didn’t wanna hear anymore.”

“That’s because I thought he was back to fucking around with Gene!”

“I did _not_ —" Paul’s face was going from pallid to pink to red at an alarming rate. Beside him, Gene was rubbing his forehead with a wince. “Look, let’s just address the issue at hand.”

“You’re right,” Peter snapped back. “Ace, listen. What they’re doing’s fucked-up.”

“Peter, we’re all still in kind of a bad place right now, I dunno if it’s the time to—”

“It’s not the time to be trying to repopulate like—like tigers in the zoo.” Peter exhaled. “Not when we could be doing a lot more. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you assholes.”

Ace unscrewed Peter’s water bottle before opening his own. He took a long swallow, then let out a sigh.

“Just wait. I’ll be getting us to Jendell in another three months, easy. Then we won’t have to worry about any of this shit.”

“That’s been your answer the last five years, Ace! You can’t fix your ship! We all know we’re not getting off this planet!”

“I mean it this time! I really got it cracked. Three months or less.” Ace took another swallow of water. “It’ll be great. My ma—aw, man, you’ll love her. She’s great. I tried sending her our records once we got big, I still had this little portable, y’know, for shipping off small stuff, don’t know if she ever got it…”

“Still having family must be great, Ace.”

Ace flinched visibly.

“I haven’t seen her in fifty years, man, I don’t know for sure. We’re all in the same boat there.”

“We’re fucking not, Ace. You just proved it.” Peter swallowed thickly. It was a lower blow than he’d meant to take. But he couldn’t help it. Fifty-fifty shot, and they’d all managed to lose. All that grief the sickest, saddest equalizer. Gigi had beaten cancer. Monique had been clean for a couple years now. Gene’s kids had careers… Paul’s youngest three weren’t out of elementary school. All of them a million times more deserving of being alive than they were. Peter’s gut roiled, and he grabbed his water bottle, forcing several gulps down just to quell the lump in his throat. He still had to take a few more breaths before he was half-positive his voice wouldn’t quaver too much, and by then, Paul had already begun talking again.

“Okay, okay. Let’s say we wanted to do something. Where would we even start? What would we even be fighting against?”

 “I don’t know.”

“Exactly. Now—”

“I know where we’d start.”

 Pete’s gaze shot over to Gene. He couldn’t keep the bare, hopeful note out of his voice.

“Where?”

“Avengers headquarters. That or Stark’s place.” At Paul’s indignant glance, Gene shrugged. “What, it’s obvious. And it’s only a hypothetical. For all we know, they could be working on the solution right now.”

“They’re not doing a damn thing,” Paul insisted.

“How do we know that, though?” Ace said it slowly. “I mean, really. They haven’t given everything up. The Hulk’s still around… you get reports of some of the other guys sometimes, taking down drug cartels, that sort of thing…”

“So it’s worth a shot!”

“Peter, c’mon, you’re saying we should just waltz right in to their place and tell them what, exactly? ‘Hi, we’re KISS. We haven’t done anything heroic in forty years, but—’”

“I wouldn’t say we haven’t done anything heroic in forty years. We all got married.”

“You know what I mean, Gene.” Paul paused. “You really think they’re gonna buy that? You really think they won’t laugh in our faces?”

“Only one way to find out.”

 Paul let out a long sigh and gave Gene a look of utter betrayal Peter hadn’t fully witnessed since the disastrous Reunion Tour about twenty years back. The I-kept-this-band-alive look. The why-don’t-you-ever-listen-to-me look. The I-told-you-KISS-condoms-were-a-bad-idea look. Gene just shook his head in return.

“It’s worth a shot. The worst they could say is no.” Gene took a swig of water. “And if they do, so what? My ego can take it. We can go back to helping with repopulation efforts here in New Haven.” He paused. “Actually, we could probably introduce the Avengers to the program, I’m sure the country could use some super-sperm to—”

 “God, no.”

Ace started laughing. Really laughing, that awful, unsettling, but infectious cackle that used to embarrass the rest of them during interviews. Peter caught sight of Gene’s lips twitching and then he lost it himself. Totally helpless. Paul had his hand over his mouth, but Peter was pretty sure he was laughing behind it.

It had been so long since they’d found anything funny. So long since they’d had any kind of idea in mind beyond surviving from day to day. Sure, Paul wasn’t sold on it, and Peter wasn’t sure if Ace was, either, not exactly, but—they were getting there. There was energy there, buzzing through his veins, making him feel fidgety and anxious and alive, really alive, for the first time in five years. He knew it was the same for the others. All the four-who-are-one superhero mysticism they’d tried to blow off as bullshit as tempers had flared in the studio and onstage and in their hotel rooms—shit, there was something to it. There had to have been or they wouldn’t still be together now.

“All right, fine, we won’t advertise it,” Gene finally said, once the laughter had died down. “If they went on the market, we’d probably be out of luck. But if we head to Manhattan… that’ll take us, what, couple hours if we drive, depending on how many highways they’ve finally cleaned up…”

“I’m not driving,” Peter said flatly.

“We could teleport,” Ace offered. “If you got better coordinates than just Manhattan, anyway.”

“Right, yeah, we could—” Gene considered. “Actually, I think we might be better off heading to Stark’s directly.”

“Why?”

“Because he holds the purse strings. And because he’s the one person out of all of them I’ve actually spoken to.” Gene was nodding to himself. “I don’t think he lives in the city anymore, but I’m sure we can—"

“I didn’t agree to any of this.”

 “Paul, c’mon. It’s not hurting anything.”

“It’s been forty years. We’re gonna be laughed out of town.”

“Yeah, but we’ve been laughed out of town since we started. ’S fine.” Ace looked over at Paul, mouth uncharacteristically pursed, on the verge of dissolving into giggles again. Peter could tell by the way Ace had his hand cupped around his thigh, underneath the table. He couldn’t remember the last time Ace had done that to him. Peter reached out to put his hand on top of Ace’s, absently tapping against the rings. Ace crooked a slow smile, and half-spoke, half-warbled, “Y’know, we’ve got nothing to lose…”

 “That song was about anal, not stomping up to the Avengers headquarters asking for a job application.”

“Same difference. Well, one’s a _little_ sexier.”

“This isn’t a joke, Ace. It’s just stupid.” Paul exhaled, staring at each of them in turn before shaking his head. “God, why the hell am I even still entertaining this shit?”

He started to get up, only for Gene to grab his arm before he’d done much more than push his chair back. Paul sat back down, glare fixed on his face.

“Paul, c’mon. We can’t do this without you.” Gene hadn’t let go of his arm yet, but Paul wasn’t relaxing into the touch. “What’s the real issue here? Are you that afraid of being turned down?”

“Let go of me,” Paul rattled off impatiently, brushing at Gene’s arm. “And no, I’m not. I—fuck, I can’t—”

“Can’t what?”

“What if you’re wrong? What if they aren’t trying? What if busting up drug cartels is all the Avengers are good for these days, too?” Paul tried to laugh but couldn’t seem to manage it, coughing, then draining the rest of his bottled water. “Nothing to lose—like hell we have nothing to lose. If we go over there, and we find out this world really is all we have left, no… no do-overs, no—saving anybody, no bringing anyone back… then that’s it. We’re done. We’ve got nothing anymore. Not even hope.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Peter watched as Gene reached over again, clasping Paul’s wrist before, almost hesitantly, taking his hand. Paul winced, but didn’t pull back. “We’ve got something left. We’re KISS. We’re family.”

“Gene—”

 “And that’s not going to change, all right? Don’t get me wrong. It’ll hurt like hell if they say there’s nothing that can be done.” Gene paused. “But that doesn’t make it true. Look, whatever life ever had in store, we’ve kept going. We’ll keep going regardless.”

Paul didn’t say anything for awhile. Long enough that Ace had stopped just resting his hand on Peter’s thigh and started actively trying to pick the lint off his slacks instead. Peter batted his hand away, then, before Paul finally spoke back up.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay. I’m in, I’ll do it.” Gene was still holding Paul’s hand. Neither had let go yet. “But don’t get too excited. And don’t think we’re just gonna pop over there tomorrow.” Paul finally tugged his hand away, but not until after a brief squeeze.

“We’re not? Oh, c’mon, Paulie, if I get some coordinates, I know I can teleport us there!”

“Because,” Paul said, grinning almost wolfishly, “we’re gonna train first.”


	2. keep on turning out and burning out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> KISS begins its training regimen. Unfortunately, there's no Rocky montage.

The old wooden box looked just the same as it always had. Just as ordinary as ever. Not the barest smear of dust. Gene cracked it open almost casually, setting it down on the living room table, the talismans of Khyscz glowing too brightly in the dim room. Better preserved than any of the four of them. Of course they were. Peter took a deep breath, just staring at the talismans, hand hovering over the box.

“They’re not gonna eat you,” Ace said dryly.

“I know that,” Peter snapped. “Just give me a second.”

Aside from the glow, the talismans never had looked too special, anyway. Crude little carvings of a cat head, a star, a dragon, and a lightning bolt. Like an elementary school kid’s art project. They didn’t look as though they’d give any more powers than the Superman curtain they’d obsessively hung by their dressing room for decades. But they had. But they _did_.

Peter could swear he felt electricity start to course through his fingers. Should’ve been exhilarating. Instead, it was frankly terrifying. He could feel three sets of eyes right on him, expectant. And why shouldn’t they be? He’d been the one to push it, insist that they put their powers to decent use. If he got cold feet now—if he couldn’t even take hold of his own talisman, well—

“Okay, we’ll do it on three,” Paul said from behind him. He was breathing hard right up against Peter’s ear. Nerves as shot as always. Peter had never been quite so grateful for someone else’s terminal case of anxiety. Paul stuck his hand out to the box, Gene and Ace following suit. “One, two, three—”

Peter’s fingers closed around the cat talisman and the world went white around him.

Briefly. Just briefly.

Then he opened his eyes.

He was back in his Destroyer outfit. Every last rhinestone on the jumpsuit intact. The layered, crystal-studded choker, the huge cross necklace, the six-inch platforms. The dry, cloying feel of greasepaint and talcum powder spread across his face, a face that barely had any crevices or wrinkles for the makeup to sink into.

He dropped the talisman back into the box, where it managed a few more pulsating twinkles before the light faded. Then he yanked off his gloves, surprised at his own shock at what he saw. Not the knobby, swollen fingers he was used to. No arthritis or carpal tunnel or tendonitis. Nothing. He felt like he could play a twenty-song setlist the next five nights in a row. He felt like he could do anything, any fucking thing he wanted, bounce back without even the remote fear of injury. Each movement felt crisp and painless. That underlying ache that’d plagued him so much longer than he’d ever confessed to any of the guys was gone.

Peter’s palms were starting to sweat. He shoved the gloves back on, insanely, trying to force an evenness to his breaths that he couldn’t manage.

“Holy shit,” he said, shaking his head. Nothing else really encompassed it. Shit, he could almost, almost understand why the other three had misused the talismans now. So much pent-up energy, he felt like he was high off his own breathing. The urge to laugh, to cry, _something_ , was digging a furrow within him.

Behind him, he could hear Ace cracking up. Peter turned around, slowly, almost as if he was afraid of what was behind him. Which was ridiculous. He’d seen the guys before. He’d seen Gene and Paul the way they used to be just yesterday. He knew all three of their costumes and faces and makeup nearly as well as he knew his own. There was just this weird feeling somewhere in his gut that as soon as he took a glance, the deal was on. Like when they’d signed their first contract. Like when they’d first closed their hands around the talismans in ’73. No turning back.

He faced Paul and Gene first. Unsurprisingly, they both looked remarkably better when they weren’t in the middle of fucking random girls. He stared from Paul’s asymmetrically-painted face, the black star over his right eye, to the nearly-batwing swoops of black paint that spread from Gene’s forehead down almost to the tip of his nose. Then there was Ace, behind both of them, the silver starbursts making his face practically gleam.

 He didn’t know how to describe it. Seeing the guys like that. It took him back—it took them all back, decades upon decades. The nostalgia trip of the Reunion Tour hadn’t been like this. Nothing could compare to this.

“You look great, Cat,” Ace said, offering his standard thumbs-up. But there was a warmth, a sincerity to his expression. Those brown eyes held some fondness, maybe. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen that look cross Ace’s face for longer than a few seconds. “You ready?”

Peter nodded. Ace kept his hand extended, fist out, hovering in the air. It took a moment or two for Peter to catch on and reach out his fist to meet Ace’s, then Gene and Paul immediately following suit. It took a few tries before all four of them managed to connect for the fistbump simultaneously, but they managed, amid a few headshakes and snorts. Then the room just went dead silent, the four of them just staring deflatedly at each other. The same stupid hesitation that had kept Peter from grabbing the talisman straight off was paralyzing them all again. No, it wasn’t just that. Sure, the talismans could dredge up the true selves of the holders, something Peter was slowly starting to realize was insulting to each of them, but they couldn’t make it ’73 again. They couldn’t put KISS in that old team mindset. That wasn’t part of their magic.

“Is anybody going to say anything? C’mon, somebody pump us up,” Peter said finally.

“I forgot all our catchphrases,” Paul confessed.

\--

KISS’ last intense experiences with personal trainers had been over twenty years prior, getting in shape for the Reunion Tour. They’d been expensive, and the overall effect had left a lot to be desired—probably because the routines had been more about avoiding fat Elvis comparisons than strength training. But this time was different. A haphazard blend of Tae-Bo workout videos and P90X DVDs, protein shakes and energy bars, Nordic Tracks and barbells soon littered the entirety of the basement, crowding out the KISS memorabilia that had crept into the corners. Paul and Gene had cancelled out indefinitely on FER, despite being hounded on a near-daily basis by both the girls and the program.

The workouts were the easy part, really. The superpowers were hazardous.

As it turned out, after forty years of disuse, Gene’s firebreathing abilities weren’t much more than enough to light a menorah. Ace’s teleportation had fared a little better—but he wasn’t getting any farther than the city limits of New Haven without an extreme amount of effort. Paul’s eye beam still had great accuracy… and a range of about three feet.

“Can you still do that other eye thing?”

“What other eye thing?”

“Seeing the future.”

Paul just rolled both eyes.

“Ace, I hate to tell you, but most of those premonitions were vague to begin with.”

“I’m pretty sure you used them to bet on Secretariat in ’73. I only remember ’cause you made us all put in for it.”

“Yeah, but that was so we could afford to rent out that ballroom. And the odds were 3 to 2, so we had to put up a lot to get the benefits.” A pause. “See, Peter, we’ve definitely abused the talismans way before the FER thing…”

Peter grimaced but let it go. His powers weren’t in good shape, either. Catlike reflexes, sure, if the cat had been dosed up on morphine prior. The claws were… just okay. Ace had joked about getting a scratching post for him at some point, when a lot of practice was probably the only thing that could improve them. Any of them.

“It doesn’t make sense. We never had to work on them before. The powers were just there.” Peter was staring dismally at his target—a pink rubber head and torso, mounted on a heavy stand—and absently slashing its face up as he spoke. “One day we were at band practice and the next day we were—what was that Superman shit, Gene…”

“Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.”

“No, we did better than that, we could fucking fly.” Peter glanced at the other three. “Has anyone even tried that one yet?”

“I’m too depressed with what we have tried,” Paul said dryly. “And I really don’t want to break a leg.”

Ace shrugged.

“I think we just gotta be patient with it, y’know? Maybe it’s a mental block. Maybe we’re putting limits on ourselves.”

“Since when have any of us ever done that? Look, man, we want this. All of us want this.”

“Could be the problem. We’re too anxious, I dunno.”

Not the most satisfying explanation. Gene started digging through his VHS collection for news clips of their crimefighting activities, and they added reviewing the tapes onto their training activities. They were even slowing the tapes down to get the hand movements and gestures exactly right—it was weird; all of it was weird. Copying poses they’d done forty years prior. Even, occasionally, copying catchphrases in an effort to get the proper intensity. It felt kind of stupid. Paul seemed like the only one who’d really get into the catchphrase bit—then again, he’d done the same stage raps for decades without losing an ounce of enthusiasm. Maybe to him it felt like he was pumping up an invisible crowd. Gene, unsurprisingly, seemed to enjoy imitating the poses.

But the only things that always felt entirely right to Peter were the outfits and makeup. Sure, it wasn’t bad, staring at a mostly-lineless face in the mirror before starting the day’s training, just like it wasn’t bad, diving into a punching bag without worrying about arthritis, but honestly, a couple stolen hours of youth were secondary to actually feeling like part of KISS again.

It just hadn’t felt the same over the last five years. Living together, being together—without performing together or crimefighting together. It had been like playing house in a morgue. Not always. Not every day. But the difference was palpable. The occasional jam sessions they’d do in the basement couldn’t compare to how it felt to really be working together again.

Peter was doing a few more chinups out back when he heard the familiar, giddy sounds of Ace’s laughter from further out in the backyard. Gene and Paul had already gone back inside, Gene exhausted after managing to spit about a two-foot column of fire, his best effort yet, and Paul taking the opportunity to volunteer to make dinner. Just as well.

“Pete, Pete!” Ace was bounding over, looking as apt to trip in his boots as ever. Peter immediately let go of the bar. “I got it, I got it.”

“You’ve got what?”

“I’ve got it unlocked.” And a big, goofy grin. “I had to let you know first. You’ll never believe this.”

“You’ve got your teleporting under control?”

Ace laughed.

“Even better. Trust me.”

“You got the shooting lightning with your hands thing back.”

“Better.”

 “Jesus, Ace, just tell me, would you?”

“You know how we keep ending up in the Destroyer outfits, right?”

“Yeah?”

They weren’t bad outfits, exactly. They’d been famous enough to be reprised for the Reunion tour. Peter hadn’t ever minded his any, at least, even if the jumpsuit did feature a gigantic bedazzled arrow pointing straight to his crotch.

“I figured out how to change costumes.”

Peter couldn’t bite back a groan.

“ _That’s_ what you’ve got unlocked?”

“Hey, it’s great! You haven’t even seen yet! Look, look, which one do you want? C’mon, I’ll let you pick. Love Gun? Dynasty?”

“KISS’ first tour.”

“You’re no fun, man,” Ace retorted, but he nodded, idly cracking his knuckles. For a second, nothing happened. Then there was a flash of blue smoke, and Ace was standing there in the comparatively plainer black leotard, v-shaped chestpiece, corseted belt, and lightning-bolt boots from their first tour, looking intensely pleased with himself. “What do you think? Pretty good, right?”

Peter managed a few mildly begrudging claps, eyes locked on Ace’s waist. Fuck, he’d forgotten how skinny the guy used to be. The corset belt just accentuated it. If Ace noticed where he was looking, though, he didn’t acknowledge it, breathing out a low sigh.

“You’re not excited.”

“Look, Ace, changing outfits is not gonna help us fight—”

“I think it is gonna help us fight.” Ace’s face was scrunched up slightly. “See, I thought about it. Why Destroyer? We didn’t completely quit the crimefighting gig until, well.”

“Until I left.”

“Yeah. And that was in ’80. Destroyer was ’76.” Rocking back and forth on his heels like a Sunday School kid, clearly unused to this costume’s boots, Ace grabbed his arm. “Think about it. What happened in ’76?”

“You got married.”

“Well, yeah, but—nah, c’mon, Peter, I thought you’d get it right off. ’76 was when we came out with ‘Beth.’ When we started getting really huge.”

Peter nodded, still baffled.

“It was the last hurrah before things fell apart, y’know? It was the last time we were really all cool with each other, all four of us. That’s why Destroyer’s what we got stuck with. And I’ll bet that’s at least part of why all our powers aren’t doing so hot.” Ace squeezed Peter’s arm. “We’re in stasis.”

“You think that’s really it?”

“I think we gotta… okay, lemme put it this way. I think we all gotta trust each other more.”

“Ace, we trust each other plenty. You and me, we—”

“Yeah, see, that’s the problem. ’S not just you and me. It’s Gene and Paul, too.” Ace paused briefly, letting go of Peter’s arm. “We always kinda acted like we were on one side of the fence and they were on the other, and—”

“Aren’t we?”

“Uh-uh. Can’t work like that anymore. Four who are _one_ , Pete.”

“What, do you want us all to have some stupid heart-to-heart bullshit sessions?”

Another puff of blue smoke. Another costume change. This one to the loose silver dress he’d worn during the Hotter than Hell photoshoot. Peter stared, shaking his head, but Ace shrugged amicably. “Nah. We’re just gonna swap room assignments. Lemme go tell Gene.”

\--

Peter hadn’t shared a bed with Paul since 1974, and every moment spent lying two feet from him now only reminded him of why.

It wasn’t that Paul drooled or snored or anything like that. He even kept his hands and his hard-ons to himself. Peter couldn’t recall ever waking up to Paul sleepily attempting to spoon him. No, Paul just…

Given too much proximity, Paul just got on his nerves. And the feeling was mutual. And the feeling had been mutual, off and on, since about 1980.

 It hadn’t always been that way. They used to go on vacations together back in the seventies. Hawaii, France, all sorts of shit like that. Used to spend hours talking on the phone when they weren’t on tour, like high school girls. Paul had almost been some kind of needy but semi-sweet little brother to him, until Peter’s cocaine habit had turned into an obsession, Peter’s song had turned into their biggest hit, and Paul’s fragile ego couldn’t take any of it. That was Peter’s opinion, at least.

KISS’ downward spiral turning into an outright crash landing after Peter’s firing probably had a lot to do with it, too, at least on Paul’s part. Gave him someone concrete to point to as the beginning of the end. Peter hadn’t exactly watched with relish as KISS sunk under the weight of its own leather heels without him, at least not for those first few years—he’d been too busy watching his own would-be solo career implode. At least KISS was still able to release albums, even if their sales were depressing as hell. Half of Peter’s records couldn’t even get a U.S. release.

He and Paul didn’t really talk to each other much the whole rest of that decade. Instead, they’d sniped at each other through the press over everything from drug use to (lack of) musical talent starting in the late eighties, made vague amends just in time for the Reunion Tour, and then… well, then, they’d unleashed their autobiographies on each other and the world like a plague of mosquitos. Committed to print every single instance either of them could think of that made the other one look like a hack, a degenerate (not overly difficult), or worse. Peter liked to think Paul had given him plenty of material with each pre-concert pants-stuffing and his tendency to doodle disembodied, veiny dicks while on tour. Unfortunately, Paul had shot right back with more tales of Peter threatening to quit the band and sabotaging concerts than Peter could count.

The too-accurate-to-be character assassinations didn’t make things tense in the house anymore, but to say they weren’t something they were both still sore about would’ve been a lie.

Of course, it didn’t help that Paul currently had a large, framed poster of himself mounted on his bedroom ceiling. It also didn’t help that the whole room smelled faintly of cologne. Or that there was a clear dent in the wall from those stupid FER extracurriculars of his.

Peter had turned in early, or tried to. Paul had actually seemed amicable, at first, moving a bunch of sketches out of the bedroom and dusting off the nightstand. Confirmation of what Peter already long since knew. Paul still didn’t actually sleep in his own room.

He wondered how Ace and Gene were doing. Ace had always really hated sharing hotel rooms with Gene because of how much of a slob he was, but most of Ace’s animosity towards the guy had been a front at best. Honestly, Ace had always kind of dug Gene, though why, Peter didn’t know. Probably because Gene wasn’t neurotic like Paul or hotheaded like Peter himself was. Probably because Gene was as close to well-adjusted as a rockstar could manage. Gene saving Ace from drowning twice on tour probably hadn’t hurt.

Now here Peter was, lying in bed with just the lamplight on, not sure whether to be looking at Paul-on-the-ceiling or the actual Paul next to him. Ceiling Paul was in full Starchild makeup, of course—with his cheek resting against a blood-streaked guitar, looking doe-eyed and winsome for the camera. Actual Paul was decidedly worse for wear and tear and smelled like toothpaste.

“Why is that even here?” Peter had to point. Unnecessarily.

“Pretty beautiful guy, right?” Paul grinned. “I used to have a mirror on the ceiling back in California.”

“Used to? What, did you start scaring yourself?”

Paul bristled.

“Erin said it was a little embarrassing.”

“A _little_?” Peter shook his head. “I think the poster’s worse. I got two pairs of eyes staring at me from different directions.”

“Just pretend it’s a threesome. I’ll even do the vocals.”

“Fuck, no. Take that thing down.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know I put it there myself—”

“I don’t care. I’m not sleeping with both of you.”

Paul started laughing, and got up, digging around under the bed and yanking out a sketchbook. He tore part of a page out, then wandered off, returning a minute or two later with a roll of tape.

“Cheer up, I’m about to fix it.” Peter watched as Paul stood up on the bed and started taping the piece of paper to his own face on the wall. Peter exhaled, vaguely relieved, until Paul climbed back into bed properly and he realized—

“You left the eyes!”

“Well, yeah, I always thought they were the best part—”

“Paul, you fucking egomaniac! Cover up the whole thing!”

“If you don’t wanna see it, then turn off the lamp.”

Peter had been about to do it, but Paul’s stare on him was so amused that he kept the lamp on out of spite. Paul kind of shrugged and stretched, eyes moving back to the poster on the ceiling before long.

“We’re getting a lot done, I think. I’m proud of us.”

“You’re proud of Gene.”

“I’m proud of you, too, Peter.” He paused. “I am. I’m proud of all of us.”

“Forget it. Every time you force out a compliment, it still sounds as canned as Fancy Feast.”

“Pete, I’m trying here.” Paul shifted. God, he was directing every single comment up at the ceiling. Frustrating as all hell. It just made Peter stare at him all the harder as Paul continued. “I think Ace is right. I think we won’t be able to do any real superhero shit until we fix our relationships.”

“They’re not that bad.”

“They’ve been better. You remember when we first talked about moving to Connecticut during that one board meeting?”

“Yeah, ’cause we’d save so much a year on taxes if we were living there instead of in New York.” Despite himself, Peter couldn’t help but laugh.

“We were gonna go all in and buy one house together. But the board shot us down. They said that was too obvious an abuse of a loophole and we’d just pop in like it was a vacation home. Said it wouldn’t fly for state taxes. Thing is, we probably would’ve done it, back then. We would’ve actually lived together, at least sometimes.”

“We’re living together now, Paul, I dunno if you noticed.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed.” Paul was still looking away. At the bookcase now, instead of the ceiling. His voice was softer. “I’m real grateful.”

“You are?”

“Well, yeah.” Paul shifted. “Look, I… I was a mess. After. Shit, I’m still not doing great. If Gene hadn’t come over that night five years ago, I…”

“You wouldn’t have.” Peter swallowed. “Hell, no. You’d never deprive the world of your own face like that. Much less yourself.”

Paul laughed softly.

“Whole lot of good a face does without a family. I was thinking about it. I was thinking, I finally had my life together and now I don’t. Now it’s gone. Now it’s all gone.” An exhale. “Thank God I couldn’t shut my mind off long enough to get out of bed. Much less do anything serious. I just—lay there. Then there’s Gene pulling up to my place and pretty soon I hear him running up the stairs, yelling because I haven’t answered the phone. Says he _knows_ I haven’t disappeared. He throws the bedroom door open, right, and tells me to get my ass out of bed and—”

“And?”

“And get in the car, because we were going to your place.” Paul took another breath. “I ask him, how do you even know Peter’s _alive_ , and he says Ace just updated his twitter and he’s over there with you now. Then he throws me his phone and tells me to text both of you right now and say we’re coming.”

“I barely remember when you showed up.” Paul flinched, and Peter added, quickly, “It’s like you said. I was pretty fucked-up, too.”

“You sure were. When I walked in, you were wrapped up in a blanket next to the fridge.”

“Paul, you wandered around in that stupid blue bathrobe for two weeks. Ace was trying to attach car fresheners to your neck.”

Without turning to look at him, Paul flipped him off. Peter returned the gesture.

“Shit, forget me trying to tell you something important, then.”

“I’m just saying, you don’t have a leg to stand on when it comes to being fucked-up after—”

“Okay, okay, fine. You got me. Anyway, that whole drive over… it was… God, it was horrible. Gene’s not that great at driving and… all those cars everywhere, just crashed alongside. I don’t know how we made it. At first, I kept trying to grab the wheel, can you believe that? I was so sick of seeing everything because every empty car made me think of—”

“I know. I know, Paul.” Peter swallowed. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“I do have to tell you. I haven’t told you anything in nearly forty years.” Paul shook his head. His dark eyes were watering up. “Gene had to pull over at one point. He looked like he wanted to smack me. He told me my parents hadn’t fled Nazi Germany and his mother hadn’t survived the Holocaust just for me to try and kill us both. I told him he was a fucking asshole. But after that, I stopped trying to take the wheel.”

Peter didn’t know how to answer, or even if he should try. Part of him wanted Paul to just shut up, not bring any memories of five years ago back. Not to dare. Every time he thought about it for too long, every time he thought about Gigi, watching her fade out in front of him, calling Jennilee, calling Lydia, getting nothing— _nothing_ —he wanted to vomit, even now. He wanted to smash up everything, everything, in a desperate, stupid bid to bring them back, or bring him to them.

He probably would’ve by now. Would’ve been another of those cracked-up hellraisers that’d committed suicide by cop or by mob by the millions, if it wasn’t for Ace coming up to his door, and Paul and Gene following suit only a day later. He could still conjure up Ace rapping at the door, yelling his name. Deep down, he’d known all along that Ace hadn’t disappeared, the same as Gene had known Paul hadn’t. A connection that went past living together on the road for over a decade. A connection that went past friendship and supernatural talismans and into something else. Peter’s throat felt heavy and hot, each swallow harder to manage.

“He saved you.”

Peter heard a sharp inhale of breath from Paul, and then, finally, quietly—

“Gene’s been saving me for fifty years. He still doesn’t realize it.”

“You saved him, too.” Peter shook his head. “You never really give yourself credit for anything that isn’t KISS.”

“I dunno about that.” Paul pointed dryly to the poster on the ceiling.

“Still KISS. Have you ever taken a picture of yourself out of the makeup that you actually liked?”

“Don’t change the subject, Pete—”

“I’m just curious—”

“Don’t be. Look, what I’m trying to say is, I owe Gene a lot. I… I owe you and Ace a lot, too.” He shifted. “I want you to know that.”

“Just the last couple years. I know we’re not in Gene’s category.”

“Now you’re the one not giving himself enough credit.” Paul closed his eyes. “You know, after you guys were gone, I got the same question every damn interview for years. ‘Do you miss Ace and Peter in the band? Do you miss KISS being on top? Do you miss crimefighting?’ And every time, I’d have to say no. And every time, I’d be lying through my teeth.”

“That was always a stupid question. We all missed KISS being on top.”

“That wasn’t all I missed.” Paul hesitated. “I had a better time when it was the four of us than I did with anybody else. Here or onstage.”

“I did, too."

Paul was back to looking at him again, tongue just slightly past his lips for a brief moment, a nervous gesture Peter hadn’t seen out of him in years.

“I’m sorry about calling you a miserable asshole in my book,” Paul said quietly.

“I’m sorry I called you a bisexual pants-stuffer in mine.”

“You weren’t wrong.”

“Neither were you.”

\---

They talked a long time after that. Long enough that Peter forgot to turn off the lamp before falling asleep, and by the time they both woke up and slogged down the stairs, it was past ten and Ace had—actually made breakfast. Gene was at the table scarfing down a stack of omelets three deep. He’d added maple syrup like a heathen, turning the omelets into islands soaking in the sticky gunk.

“Curly,” Ace drawled out, waving with his spatula. “Didja have fun last night?”

Peter had come down in nothing but pajama bottoms. Paul had just tied his bathrobe around his waist. Neither of them had shaven. Both of them looked like they were ten seconds from passing out in their chairs. Peter managed a noncommittal noise that wasn’t nearly enough to satisfy Ace.

“C’mon, I gotta have details, man. Paulie, you’ll tell me, right?”

“Don’t call me Paulie before noon,” Paul mumbled, reaching for his glass of orange juice. “Just give me an omelet.”

“Was it that bad?” Gene, through a mouthful of food. “Ace and I had a good time.”

 “I haven’t stayed up past four in probably twenty-five years, unless I was on tour,” Peter managed.

“That’s only because you were smart enough to stop having kids in the eighties,” Paul said with a grimace. “Ace, you’re about to burn—”

“I got it, I got it,” Ace said, flipping the two omelets over, smushing them both briefly with the spatula before dropping one each on Peter and Paul’s plates with a wink. “We’re getting somewhere. I can feel it.”

Peter nodded, then dug into his omelet. Not too bad, surprisingly. Fluffy enough, and mixed in with enough bacon and cheese that the near-burnt exterior was forgivable.

“Costumes and powers and press releases. That’s where we’re headed,” Gene intoned dreamily, gulping down a glass of apple juice.

“We’re going to do a press release?” Peter asked. Immediately, he glanced accusingly at Paul, except Paul looked as bewildered as Peter felt.

“Gene, seriously? That’s a terrible idea. Let’s just approach Stark directly like we’ve been saying all along.”

“Since when does KISS do anything without fanfare?” Gene reached over the table, grabbing the maple syrup, thoroughly drowning what little was left of his omelets. “I’ve been in contact with a couple of journalists. We might get that second _Rolling Stone_ cover.”

“I don’t care about the cover—”

“C’mon, Gene’s right.” Ace was flipping another few omelets as he spoke. One was dribbling and burning onto the stovetop. “We could use the attention here. Make us seem legit.”

“You want to do a tell-all? Demonstrations?” Paul shook his head. “Nobody would believe that stuff out of us anymore. They’d say it was just theatrics.”

“Exactly. They’ll think we’re being tasteless. Or trying to figure out if anyone wants to see us tour,” Peter said, eating another bite of his omelet. Beside him, Paul winced.

“We’re always tasteless,” Gene retorted. “It’s our trademark.”

“No, our trademark is being shills. Well, yours and Paul’s, anyway—”

“Pete—” Gene started again, then shook his head. “Listen. I’m not saying we have to do it now. And I’m not saying it _has_ to be a big deal. But we need to let the public know we’re back, and we better do it soon.”

Soon turned out to be two weeks later. Not even the _Rolling Stone_ cover they’d coveted years ago, either. Instead, all they’d ended up with was a short blurb of an online article. Up top was a vintage photo of them in full costume, posing around New York. Beneath the text was a picture taken just for the article—out of costume, standing with their arms around each other. The peace sign Ace was flashing with his free hand didn’t make the disparity any less depressing.

**_KISS Makes Up (Once More, With Feeling)_ **

_The acrimonious quartet of sometimes-superheroes, mostly-rockstars has been out of the public eye for the bulk of the decade. Best known for their outlandish costumes, Kabuki-style makeup and bombastic shows, KISS’ latest exposure leaves much to be desired. The glam-rocker baby boomers met with Associated Press—customary platform heels of yesteryear swapped for crocs and loafers—right in their backyard._

_“Oh, we’re prepping for a final tour right now,” bassist and proverbial face of the band, Gene Simmons, 70, insists with a smile. “KISS is here. No stage needed.”_

_KISS’ most successful tenure, from ’73-’80, saw an unheralded intermingling of crimefighting and commercialism. “We’d put ourselves on anything,” frontman Paul Stanley, 67, admits. “Lunchboxes, thermoses… I can’t tell you I’m ashamed of it, because the demand was there. And in many cases, it continues to be.” While Stanley’s coy on the numbers, KISS remains profitable enough that the four original members enjoy a luxurious New Haven estate spanning eight acres. Much of their backyard space, however, is reserved for esoteric training. The lawn is covered in holes and debris, and the band refuses to offer a proper explanation._

_“Let’s just say we’re getting our game faces on,” is almost all Ace Frehley, lead guitarist, 68, will admit to. “This isn’t just for the fans anymore. It’s for everybody.” Drummer Peter Criss, 73, barely elaborates, “We spent the last five years the same way everyone else did. Then we woke up.”_

_He isn’t clear on what waking up entails. KISS’ stint as superheroes has long been overshadowed by their rockstar antics and market oversaturation. Poor ticket sales and IRS run-ins forced a return to the makeup and spandex in the late ’90’s and the readmittance of Frehley and Criss to the group, only for the original KISS to fracture again a few years later amid infighting and contract negotiations. But if the destroyed state of their backyard is any indication, KISS is planning something—even if they’re only manufacturing their own smoke bombs._

“What the hell kind of article is this?”

“Luxurious New Haven estate, my ass, Gene. We’re here because of the taxes.”

 “I know you didn’t want a big reveal, but shit, now we just look like a bunch of lunatics! Blowing up our own yard… throwing in our ages like we’ve gone senile…”

“They didn’t even mention my spaceship,” Ace muttered.

“They did, that’s the ‘debris.’” Paul closed his eyes. “We spent a whole hour with the guy and he yanks one quote from each of us. This isn’t going to make anyone take us seriously.”

“It’s not supposed to,” said Gene. “It’s just supposed to make them talk.”

“They’re not going to talk! This isn’t like the seventies, Gene! We’re not getting a follow-up interview to explain ourselves! Not unless this really blows up—”

“It doesn’t have to blow up. All we need is the right people reading it.”

Over the next few weeks, there was talk. There were snickers, at least. Peter got the groceries on his assigned day, as usual, with Ace in tow, cheerfully piling twelve-packs of soda into the cart amid the protein powders and energy bars. Ordinary enough, until the teenage girl at the check-out counter a few feet away looked at both of them smugly.

It wasn’t that Peter wasn’t used to being recognized. Despite how defeated the world had become, he’d still occasionally get asked for a selfie, even while doing the shopping. Especially when one of the others was with him. He’d oblige. They’d always oblige. Gene, Paul, and Ace hadn’t toured in five years, and for Peter, it had been even longer. Funny how being as thoroughly away from the spotlight as they’d been made them all way more receptive to what fan reaction they received.

But this wasn’t a typical fan reaction. Those, he could deal with. A guy coming up to him, telling him he’d been sober for five years now, or saying he’d gotten checked for breast cancer because of him, or a girl telling him she was named after “Beth”… all that was fine, even good. Stuff he was grateful to hear. But this girl was different. It was the sneer that threw him, the way she suddenly pointed a finger at them and waved her coworker from the other counter over. She hurried to her, they mumbled something Peter couldn’t quite get at, and then, walking up to them, said—

“We wanna see the holes in your yard.”

“The holes—”

“Yeah.”

Peter looked the girls up and down. He hadn’t been heckled since he’d done his club tours. He never had quite figured out how to take it on the chin.

“Sure. We’ll bring you up there, right, Petey?” There was Ace, abandoning the cart to get a little closer, smiling. Peter shot him an aggrieved look.

“You will? What, in your _spaceship_?” The first girl snorted.

“Nah, nah, it’s still out of commission. You wanna take my hand, though? Yeah, there you go, you hold hers—”

“Ace, the hell?”

“You too, Pete. Yeah, right, okay—”

Peter realized what Ace was about to do about a second before he saw an abbreviated flash of Ace’s old Destroyer costume and felt his guts try to lurch past his skin. Then all he saw was their backyard—Paul and Gene nowhere in sight, thank God. Peter let go of Ace’s hand as soon as the lingering, nauseous feeling from the teleport passed, indignation spreading like butter across his face.

“What the fuck? Ace, you can’t teleport a couple of kids just because they made fun of us!”

“Oh, my God, oh, my God!” one of the girls screamed, grabbing the other one, who looked as if she was seconds from puking. “Where are we? We’re not on break! We’ve gotta get back to the store!”

“Didn’t you wanna see the holes in the yard first?” Ace sounded as lazily amiable as ever, already pointing at the nearest lawn damage. “I think that one was Gene’s, I dunno how, but—”

“Where’d the other fat, old guy go?”

Ace started cackling and waved his fingers as the girls stared.

 “Holy shit,” one of them whispered, stumbling backwards. “Holy _shit_!”

“Ace, put them back!” Peter yelled.

“Okay, okay…” Ace reached over, offering his hand back to the girls. “I’ll getcha back, just—"

Two cut-off yelps and the three of them vanished. A few minutes later, Ace popped back into the yard alone, bags in hand.

“I got the groceries, Petey.”

 “What about the car, idiot?”

  Ace winced.

“I can’t teleport a car, man. That’s a couple thousand pounds, y’know? It was kinda hard just lugging you and the girls, if I’m gonna be honest…”

“Then _drive_ it.” Irritably, Peter dug the keys out of his pocket and tossed them to Ace, who barely managed to catch them. So much for all the training. Ace sighed.

“Pete, sometimes you’re really no fun.” Fifteen minutes later, Peter watched from the window as Ace pulled back into the driveway. He was back in the house before long, out of costume, stepping right into the kitchen where Peter was waiting, plastic bags full of groceries still on the table.

“Why did you do that, Ace?”

“They were pissing you off.” Ace shrugged, then noticed the table. “Hey, you didn’t put up the groceries.”

“I brought them in. Figured you could handle them after that stunt.”

Ace looked as if he were about to argue, but then he just shook his head.

“All right, Cat, I’ll get ’em.” He stretched absently, yanking out a pack of Pepsi. “That shit takes a lot out of you, a couple times in a row like that… I needed the practice.”

“You could’ve practiced with us anytime! Hell, you _have_!” Granted, the last few times had gotten a bit more involved than Peter might have liked. About a week prior, Ace had teleported himself and Peter both to the dim destination of “as far as he could go.” That destination had turned out to be an apple orchard in Pennsylvania. Whatever else was going on, Ace’s powers were definitely getting stronger.

Peter’s were, too. He’d never had as much to show for them, nothing too flashy about most of what he’d been granted, but he had managed to slice the last several rubber dummies to shreds without much effort. Gene was about to cause infernos now. Paul’s eye beam had mostly gotten its old range back. Peter didn’t honestly know if all that was enough, if it could make them formidable enough for the likes of Stark and whatever was left of the Avengers to take notice, but he hoped it could be.

“I know. Guess it was kinda mean, but… I wanted to try it on someone who wasn’t expecting it, y’know? In case we had to fight somebody and I had to take them out of the area or whatever.”

“Is that why you made us all hold hands?” He’d never needed to before. Proximity was enough for Ace to catch someone else in a teleport.

“Nah. I just wanted them to feel like they had something to do with it.” Ace grinned. “And maybe I wanted to cop a feel off of you.”

“All you did was hold my hand, asshole.”

“Aw, Petey. I had to keep it classy.” And a wink. “… There’s another reason, too.”

“For the hand-holding?”

“Nah, for borrowing the girls.” Ace stuffed a box of protein powders into a cabinet with a wince. “Gene was right about the article bit. But it never was the press that got us started in the first place. ’S always been word of mouth. ’S always been us doing stupid shit like wander around Manhattan in full fucking costume before people even knew who we were. You really think those chicks are gonna stay quiet about what they just saw?”

“Ace, if we end up with a bunch of assholes stopping by the yard—”

“Hey, hey. We gotta play the game. We said KISS was back. Now we just have to prove it.”


	3. the grass don't grow and the river don't flow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Training continues, sans Rocky montage. Peter gets some answers courtesy Gene and, maybe, Ace. Prepare the preparations.

Two days later, the visitors started to arrive.

Peter couldn’t exactly call them fans. He didn’t think they  _ were _ fans, exactly—he didn’t think more than half of the younger ones even exactly knew who KISS was. But they started to creep up to the yard, phones in hand, eager for even the barest hint of superheroism.

The other guys were eating it up. Even Ace, who wasn’t quite as introverted as Paul but still relished his time alone, started showing the visitors around the backyard like it was some kind of grand tour (unsurprisingly, the only sacrosanct portion was his spaceship, roped off as if it were the Venus de Milo—“’m sorry, you can’t touch it, but if you wanna stand over there and take a picture, you can”). He only looked mildly taken aback when a couple of the visitors got brave enough to go from sneaking around the yard to actually knocking at the front door.

“Don’t let them in,” Pete snapped, watching Ace get up on automatic to answer. Ace only offered him a lazy shrug.

“Why not?”

“You know why not. We’ll never get rid of them.”

“They ain’t gonna stay, Peter,” Ace started, interrupted by Paul hurriedly half-tripping down the stairs, having to grab onto the railing. The six-inch, star-encrusted heels of his Alive outfit seemed to be giving him trouble.

“Don’t answer it yet!” he called out, looking from Ace to Peter. “Don’t answer until you’re in costume!”

“Paul, you vain bastard—”

“I’m not being vain! You’ll ruin the mystique!”

“What’s the point? They all know we’re old!”

“That’s not what I mean! Ace, how the hell is anyone gonna have any faith in us saving the world if you answer the door like  _ that _ ?”

Ace shot a brief, amused look Peter’s way just before a puff of blue smoke obscured him from sight. A second later, Ace emerged, in the facepaint and a purple, velvet onesie.

Paul looked as if he were about to have an aneurysm. 

“ _ No _ ! That’s not even one of our outfits! How did you—”

“Don’t have to be. You can do any outfit you wanna.” Ace paused. “C’mon, Paulie, you didn’t just think we were stuck with the tour shit, did you? What kinda superhero only gets six costumes?”

The rapping from the other side of the door continued.

“Oh, come on, are you telling me if I want my black leather overalls back, all I have to do is—”

“I dunno if I’d recommend ’em, Paulie, but—” Ace stopped again, yanking open the door. “Hey, how you doing?”

The kid at the door—he couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven, by Peter’s reckoning—seemed to mostly be his dwarfed by his own mass of curly red hair, his face plastered with freckles. He just stared at the three of them, mouth a small round o of surprise.

“I didn’t think you’d open it!”

Paul was mumbling under his breath, gesticulating to Peter with about as much subtlety as a conductor during Handel’s “Messiah.”  _ Transform _ , he was mouthing. Peter ignored him.

“Well, we don’t always, but…” Ace trailed, grinning. “How’d you hear about us, huh?”

The redheaded kid shrugged.

“Somebody at school said you were supposed to be fixing everything.”

“Yeah?” Ace’s expression didn’t shift a single centimeter.

“Uh-huh. They said you were gonna be the Avengers’ secret weapon and they’d pulled you out of the freezer like Captain America.”

Peter glanced over at Paul, who was still standing halfway down the staircase. From Paul’s expression, it was patently clear that the sheer amount of interviews, meet and greets, and impromptu hobknobbing he’d endured over the last forty years was all that was keeping him straight-faced.

“We didn’t get pulled out of the freezer,” Paul managed after a moment.

“I guess he didn’t,” said the kid, pointing to Peter. Before Peter could respond, but not before Paul and Ace started to snort, he continued. “Are you, though? Are you guys really gonna do it?”

“We—”

“I got a sister,” and the kid wasn’t looking at either of them now. Peter waited, expectant, a rock forming somewhere in his gut. He knew the story before the kid could tell it. He was sure of it. Just as sure of it, just as uselessly sure of it as he ever had been during their cancer ward visits. The kids all hoping just because KISS had come by, that maybe everything was going to be all right, even as they lay there hooked up to IVs and a half-dozen machines. Even as they lay there dying. The kid swallowed. “She… wouldn’t be coming back even if you did save everybody.”

“I’m sorry.” It was Paul. He’d said it before Peter could. He wasn’t looking the kid in the eye, either, Peter noticed. Just staring at the door directly behind him. Peter’s gut was lurching. He’d been wrong. She hadn’t disappeared from existence. She’d died before. 

The kid didn’t say anything for a few seconds that seemed to stretch and pull like taffy. Ace’s lips were pursed so tight the black of his lipstick seemed barely-there. The cloistered existences they’d led the last five years, trying so hard to avoid pain when it enveloped everything around them. Everything  _ past _ them. Consumed in their own grief, unable or unwilling or both to really acknowledge the real human toll of it for fear it would break them. Everyone on Earth had lost someone. Some had lost everyone. And some just watched as the ones left behind followed after.

Peter was almost starting to get it. Some of it. For Gene and Paul and Ace, FER probably hadn’t only been an exercise in talisman abuse and easy lays. Stupid as it was, hedonistic and disastrous as it was, trying to make a life in a dying world… it must have warmed them. It must have made them feel good for more than just the afterglow.

“I’m gonna see her again someday.” The kid finally glanced up from the floor. “Not for a long time. But I will.” An exhale. “You’re gonna try, right? You’re gonna try to fix everything.”

“We’re gonna try,” Peter said, throat feeling warm and thick and too-heavy. 

“Okay.” And he was starting to smile, dimples pushing into the freckles on his face. “That’s good.” He hesitated. “Oh, uh…”

“Yeah?”

And he pushed his phone forward.

“Could I get a selfie? The kids at school won’t believe me unless I get a selfie.”

It might have been the most questionable selfie Peter had been a part of in his life.

“I told you to get in costume,” Paul mumbled as he held up the phone for the picture, putting his free arm behind Peter’s shoulder on idle default, “but  _ no _ —”

Begrudgingly, with that utterly inevitable puff of green smoke signaling everything, Peter got into costume. Well. He got into the cat-embroidered jacket and cutout leotard he’d worn when it was too cold to go sleeveless. The kid’s eyes went buggy. Paul looked deeply offended. Ace just snickered.

“None of us match at all,” Paul said flatly.

“I don’t care. Take the picture.”

“Fine.” Paul was still fiddling with the angle, unsurprisingly, tilting his head as he stared at the camera. Peter waited for about fifteen seconds—fifteen seconds too long for Ace, who snatched the phone from Paul and snapped the picture before he could grab it back. Paul looked as if he were about to snag it back, or at least argue, but instead he just let Ace hand the phone back to the kid—after leaning over to inspect the selfie first.

“It pass inspection, Paul?” Ace lilted.

“It’s good enough,” Paul muttered, before turning his attention back to the visitor. “Anything else you’d like? Autographs? Posters?”

The kid nodded shyly, and Paul immediately scrambled for merchandise. For once, Peter was profoundly grateful Gene was gone on an errand run. The man might have tried to sell the poor kid some of those KISS-branded air guitar strings he still had in the basement.

\--

Things quieted down faster than Peter had expected them to. A few weeks of buzzing activity, a few weeks of impromptu, free meet-and-greets, and then the visitors retreated again. Fickle. No attention span. No second tidal wave of KISSteria overwhelming their half-gone world. Peter found he didn’t really mind. Workouts and training were a lot easier to focus on without being stared at or recorded. 

He’d spent an hour or so downstairs, fiddling absentmindedly at the piano, digging through old memorabilia and guitars, before coming back up to the main floor to start on dinner. His assigned day again. Gene was the only one hanging around the kitchen by the time Peter got there.

“Where’re Ace and Paul?”

“Trying to fix the spaceship.” 

“They getting anywhere with it?”

“I doubt it. Ace didn’t get out the blowtorch.”

Peter snorted in reply.

“Three more months, he said. S’like how he used to say his next album was coming out in the spring. Only it was ten springs in a row, the lazy bastard.”

Gene shrugged.

“I can’t remember the last time he asked one of us to help with it.”

“I wouldn’t  _ want _ us helping with it. C’mon, Gene, none of us have any business fooling with that shit when we barely know how to top off the oil tank in the car.”

“What’s gotten you so pissed-off this late in the afternoon?”

“You know what.”

“Peter, I really don’t—”

“Things are getting screwed-up again,” Peter said dryly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. The connection bullshit’s back just like it used to be. Don’t you feel it?”

It was a moot question. Of course Gene could feel it. That weird bleeding in of everyone’s emotional states into a messy, almost indistinguishable puddle. Getting so in-tune it got creepy, borderline empathic. It was the one thing about their crimefighting days that Peter hadn’t missed much at all.

“I’m feeling it.”

“Somebody’s keyed-up as hell. And it’s not me, so it’s got to be either you or Paul or Ace…”

“It’s probably Paul.”

“Paul’s always anxious! What’s he got to be so nerved-out about?” Peter groused, yanking the trash bag out of the garbage can, tying it off, and setting it down on the floor. “Shit, I thought he might be feeling better these days.”

Gene shrugged.

“He’s sensitive.”

“Ace is, too, the big difference is he has a sense of humor about it,” Peter grumbled, heading outside with the trash bag in tow, still calling out to Gene as he toted it out. “I don’t like feeling antsy just because someone else is antsy. I’ll tell them both that as soon as they get in.”

“Don’t do that. There’s probably a reason.”

“Reason, my ass. My blood pressure’s high enough without Paulie dialing it up with all his fucking feelings.” Peter returned, only to find Gene had, surprisingly, replaced the trash bag while he was out. “What’d you want for dinner?”

“Do we still have any of that steak left?”

“Yeah. Probably enough for a stir-fry.” Peter opened up one of the cabinets by the stove, taking out a cutting board and a frying pan.  _ Wok _ , he could almost hear Paul correcting. If it got the job done, the proper terminology didn’t matter. Mentally, he started to tally the vegetables they had on hand to toss in. Onions, peppers… maybe some mushrooms. He wasn’t after authenticity so much as getting rid of as much produce as possible. Boil up some rice, and it wouldn’t be a bad meal.

“Brownies would be good, too.”

“I didn’t buy any mix.”

“I did.” Gene dug it out of the pantry, along with a bottle of oil. Peter rolled his eyes.

“You know none of the workouts we do in costume do a damn thing for any of us out of costume, right?”

“I know. I just don’t care.” Gene was already taking the egg carton out of the refrigerator, absolutely shameless. Peter shook his head slowly, watching Gene set the ingredients out on the counter. “Figure we’ve earned it.”

“You’re gonna get diabetes, man.”

“I’ll live to be a hundred. I’ve got great… genes.” Gene said it with his usual dry, obnoxious self-assurance, familiar enough that Peter had long stopped minding it. He expected Gene to get out a bowl next, but instead, he went and plugged in the record player on the other side of the kitchen. Peter could hear him cross over into the living room, and knew he was probably pilfering through their records. “This’ll help your blood pressure. What album do you want?”

“Anything that isn’t us.”

Gene nodded, walking back into the kitchen with a ratty copy of the Beatles’  _ Yesterday and Today _ . Peter winced.

“Okay, anything that isn’t us or the fucking Beatles.”

“Best two names in rock and roll.”

Peter rolled his eyes. Gene set the album down on the kitchen table, still looking at Peter, which was a bit of a surprise. Peter had expected him to dig out another album and put it on the player, regardless of his opinion on the matter. But no, he was waiting on Peter to pick.

“One of the Krupa records is fine.”

“All right.”

Gene crossed back over to the living room, got another album out, and put it on the turntable. Peter recognized it after the first few bars as  _ Burnin’ Beat. _ He sighed and retrieved the leftover steak and vegetables from the fridge, started to chop the steak into strips while Gene began mixing up the brownie batter. Peter’s arthritis wasn’t treating him half so badly this evening. 

It was always a different kind of silence with Gene than it was with Ace or Paul. Strangely easier to handle. Gene wasn’t off in an avoidant, self-inflicted orbit like Ace, or stuck chronically ruminating like Paul. Gene was always thinking ahead. Always moving forward. Sometimes it aggravated the shit out of Peter, and sometimes it was just what he needed to be around.

“The talismans expose the true selves of the holders,” Gene said finally, as he poured a frankly disastrous amount of mini M&Ms and broken-up Hershey bars into the batter. “Did you ever give that any thought?”

“No. Not until the last couple months.” Peter shrugged. “I didn’t think about it back then. We’d been doing the makeup before we got the talismans.”

Nothing Gene didn’t already know. They’d mapped out rough designs themselves in a desperate bid for a gimmick. Something to get them noticed. The regular genderbending schtick they’d tried before, with the four of them in heavy blush and eyeliner and lipstick, hadn’t suited anyone but Ace. They hadn’t looked like they were tearing down the establishment, blurring the lines between male and female, any of that—they’d just looked sad. Putting on the white greasepaint had been the turning point they needed. The talismans just sealed the deal.

“I’ve thought about it a long time.” Gene’s voice, always quiet and deceptively even, got a little lower, as if there was any likelihood Ace and Paul could hear him from out in the backyard. “It’s a great origin story. Struggling band gets magic powers, becomes successful superhero musicians. But…”

“But what?”

“When your true self wears more makeup and higher heels than Frank-n-Furter, that’s concerning.”

“Like Stark’s Iron Man crap is any better.” Peter crooked a smile. “He doesn’t even have a codpiece.”

Gene snorted. He only looked marginally more at ease.

“That’s not exactly it.” He paused. “We were still wearing the outfits and makeup five years ago. Paul and Eric and Tommy and I.”

“Yeah, I know.” God, did he know. Peter didn’t even remember—or didn’t want to remember—when he’d signed over his makeup rights. He hadn’t been thinking about crimefighting then. None of them had. He just remembered disgust roiling in his stomach as he’d watched the band go on without him for the second and then the third time in a fucking row.

“It was getting to me. Getting to all of us—Paul won’t admit it, but…” Gene trailed uncharacteristically. “It was starting to feel like a parody.”

“ _ Starting _ to?” Peter snorted. Gene, surprisingly, didn’t look too ruffled.

“Yeah. At first, I thought I was fine with that. We’d been running off nostalgia since the nineties. If people were still paying to see us, who the fuck cared if I wasn’t stomping around anymore? If Paul wasn’t jumping all over the stage? Who—”

“Gene, the only reason either of you stopped that was because  _ wasn’t _ turned into  _ couldn’t _ .” Peter tossed the steak into the frying pan, started to chop the mushrooms, just dropping them into the pan, not bothering with the cutting board. “Didn’t matter how many tickets you sold. You couldn’t buy your way back to ’76.” 

“That isn’t what I meant.” Gene’s eyes, always so appallingly focused, weren’t on Peter for once. “Fuck, if dignity was in KISS’ vocabulary, we would have folded our first concert in drag. I didn’t care about getting old and looking like crap onstage. I didn’t want to buy my way back to ’76.”

“Then what did you want?”

“Shit, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“I wanted to hang it up.” Gene was pouring the batter into the pan now, smoothing it over more than he needed to with the back of a spoon, his mouth pursed tightly. He hadn’t even taken a taste of it yet. Peter knew exactly how poor a sign that was.

“You’ve wanted to hang it up before. You even  _ said _ you would. Remember the Farewell Tour?”

“ _ Really _ hang it up. No more KISS, no more concerts—I was tired of it. Maybe Mick Jagger can keep on croaking ‘Satisfaction,’ but—”

“But Paul can’t get through ‘Detroit Rock City.’”

“Don’t tell him that. It’d kill him.” 

“He already knows it.” Peter paused. Started chopping up the peppers and onions and dropping them into the wok, which was hissing with every new addition. A thought had come to him, one he’d mulled over for ages, but hadn’t dared mention until now. “Gene?”

“Yeah?” Gene had finally put the brownie pan into the oven.

“Was that the real reason for all the Hall of Fame crap? Was that why we didn’t play?”

“Peter,” Gene started. 

“It was, wasn’t it? Why the hell didn’t you say so? I thought it was just the usual bullshit. Don’t let me and Ace play with you and Paul or everyone’ll be begging for another Reunion Tour. If I’d known—”

“That—”

“You should’ve  _ said _ ! Did we really hate each other that bad? Was Paul that fucking scared of what we’d say? Were you?”

“Peter, at this point—”

“If you’d said, I might’ve understood. But Christ, Gene, just refusing without a reason was fucking awful. I didn’t wanna see any of the rest of you outside of a funeral home ever again.”

“I’m pretty sure we were all thinking that.” Gene sounded as if he were trying to force out a snort. “Even Paul and I didn’t coordinate suits.”

“The hell did you two have to be sore about? Did you insult one of his paintings?”

Gene just shrugged.

“We’re basically brothers, we have our disagreements.”

“Cut the crap, Gene, Paul ain’t ever been your brother. He’s your princess.”

“Fine, whatever.” The Krupa record slowed to a stop. Peter peered over as Gene turned it over and set the needle back down. “What happened at the Hall of Fame was a mistake.”

“You’re damn right it was.”

“But I didn’t get to dwell on it. We were in the middle of touring when…” Gene swallowed thickly. Peter knew he wasn’t about to detail him and Paul’s falling out.  _ When _ without a specification always meant five years ago. Another four-letter-word for half of humanity disappearing in front of them. “But I figured it out before then. I’m serious, I really did. I was out there doing the fucking ‘God of Thunder’ routine and all of a sudden…” Gene shook his head, looking almost bewildered. “I realized I could not give less of a shit.”

“You? Are you serious?” Peter did snort. “C’mon, you’ve gone onstage sick as a dog before, don’t tell me you—”

“I’m serious. It was terrifying. You don’t—” Another shake of his head. “The audience wasn’t feeding me anymore. I wasn’t feeding them. I realized that the show didn’t really become a show until we stopped believing in it. I’d stopped believing in it.”

“So what changed your mind?” Peter turned down the heat on the stovetop, absently pushing a spatula through the stir-fry. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Gene had gotten out the soy sauce for him. “What made you believe in it enough to get the talismans back out?” 

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

Gene hesitated. Rare to see him hesitate. He looked as if he were about to deliver another practiced interview sermon, and Peter prepared himself for it, but it didn’t happen. 

“I wanted to see for myself. Prove there might still be some magic there.” His lip was twitching. Peter shifted closer as Gene continued. “After everything, I needed it. But I didn’t want to get them out alone, I don’t know why. I suppose I was just afraid of nothing happening.”

“You really thought nothing would happen?”

Gene raised an eyebrow.

“Nothing had happened since ’80.”

“Nothing at all?”

“They’d just glow a little sometimes. I didn’t expect that much, but I was hoping for it. So I asked Paul to come up to the attic with me. I said I was wanting to look through some old pictures, maybe get something together for a KISS coffee table book—”

“And he believed you?”

“Of course not, but he came up there. Once I pulled out the box, he didn’t hesitate. He told me to go ahead and open it up.” Gene’s mouth twitched. “They were glowing, all right. They hadn’t been that bright in years. I’m not sure which one of us reached in and grabbed his talisman first.”

“Then you decided after that to join FER?”

Gene didn’t look too abashed.

“Yeah, I found an article on it a few days later. I showed it to Paul, then we told Ace, put in our applications and started in, then you found out, and the rest is—”

“If you say KISStory, you’re not getting dinner.’

“That’s fine. I’ll just eat the brownies.”

Ace and Paul returned a few minutes later, after the stir-fry was done but before the brownies were ready. They both looked weirdly drained, almost down, Paul stiffly pulling out his chair and sitting at the table without a word.

“How’s the spaceship?” Gene asked.

“Outlook not so good, Curly,” Ace mumbled, walking over on automatic to the sink, retrieving the bowl Gene had used to mix the brownie batter in. He started scraping a spoon up the sides, seemingly unaware that Gene had, for once, actually half-filled the bowl with water and dish soap, even if he hadn’t washed it. Paul threw him an acrid look. “But we’ll see, y’know?”

Peter didn’t bother to plate the stir fry, just put the wok itself on top of an oven mitt on the table. He did the same with the rice bowl a moment later. No need to clean more dishes than he had to.

“We’ll see,” Gene agreed, glancing Peter’s way. “Look, if you want us all to help, just let us know.”

“Nah, Geno, it’s—” Ace had put that first absentminded spoonful of water, batter, and suds in his mouth, and immediately spat it out. “ _ Shit! _ ”

Gene barely suppressed a laugh.

“Sorry—”

“Jesus,” Ace mumbled. “You usually just leave it in the sink and don’t fill it up…” he trailed, dropping the spoon back into the bowl and heading over to sit at the kitchen table across from Paul.

“If you didn’t get anywhere with the ship, what were you doing in there?”

Paul looked like he was about to say something, but then he just reached over and spooned out some of the stir-fry from the wok, staring at the vegetables like they had personally offended him. Peter had to swallow back a spiteful comment—God, Paul probably thought he’d overcooked the onions or some stupid shit like that—but then Ace piped up again.

“Well, we talked about flying. ’S kind of the one thing we still haven’t tried yet.”

Gene nodded, checked the brownies, and then got his plate, scooping up rice and the stir-fry in generous portions. Peter followed suit, a little warily, taking his usual spot next to Ace.

“Flying would give us one over half the Avengers.” Peter glanced over at Gene, trying to gauge his reaction first. For all his fear of heights, Gene barely flinched. Consummate professional. Or maybe he was just thinking about the brownies.

“Yeah. We’ve been putting it off too long.” Gene stuck a forkful of rice in his mouth. “Let’s review the tapes after dinner and start practicing tomorrow.”

“Review the tapes? C’mon, Gene, we’ve been doing that for ages! You just don’t wanna—"

“I do want to. First thing tomorrow.” Gene took a swig of water. Peter’s gaze went from Gene to Paul and then over to Ace, and he shook his head.

“You mean it?”

“I mean it. I’ve even got the equipment ready.”

\---

“Gene, when you said equipment, I thought you meant a bungee cord.”

Gene just grinned widely. Gene’s idea of equipment had been a whole lot more useless.

Gene’s idea of equipment had been lugging the trampoline out of the garage.

And as good as it was to get an excuse to peel off their six-inch heels, and as entertaining as it was to jump on the trampoline, Peter had to admit it wasn’t getting either of them airborne. But it was giving them an excellent vantage point to watch the other two.

“We could be trying it up there.” Peter gestured, maybe unnecessarily, to Paul and Ace, who were perched, and arguing, on top of the third story roof. “You hear them, right?”

“How could I not fucking hear them,” Gene mumbled.

“Pauuuulieee. C’mon. You trust me?”

“We’re almost fifty feet off the ground!”

“It’s like with a baby! You put ’em in the pool and they’ll have to swim!”

“Ace, how the fuck did you ever have a kid—”

“Same way you did. Well, sorta.” Ace started laughing, shaking his head. “Relax, man. Just relax. You’ll be fine. We’ll both be fine. Look, if we’re about to crash I’ll teleport us both back down, okay?” Peter couldn’t see it from where he was, but deep down he was sure Ace was winking.

“I don’t see how he talked Paul into this,” Gene said.

“They’ve been hanging out more lately.” Peter wasn’t sure why. They hadn’t made another room switch or anything. Then again, Paul and Ace hadn’t ever had any major row between them, either. He managed a backflip, to his own surprise. “And they knew you were going to wuss out.”

“You’re not up there, either.”

“I will be once they get it,” Peter retorted. Right now, the scene on the roof was too entertaining to miss. Paul was wobbling slightly on the roof, grabbing onto Ace’s arm in an attempt to steady himself. Unfortunately, and predictably, Ace was wobbling, too.

“Ace, c’mon, this was a bad idea, let’s—c’mon, man, just teleport us back do—”

“Uh-uh, Paulie. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“You do know I’ve had my hip replaced twice, don’t you?”

“I thought it was three times.” Ace was laughing. Worse, he was swaying. Paul hanging onto him was only making them both more off-balance, teetering towards the edge of the rooftop. But Ace was talking just as easily as if they were safely on the ground. “Two makes more sense. I always wondered how the hell you could break a titanium one—"

“I didn— _ fuck _ !” Paul screamed, clutching Ace with both arms as they fell off the roof together. Peter and Gene scrambled off the trampoline, running out to catch them—stupidly, neither of them had thought they’d need to—only to watch them swoop down, and then hover, six or seven feet from the ground.

By that time, Peter was pretty sure that Paul’s face at least had probably gone almost as pale as the greasepaint. He watched as Paul slowly loosened his grip on Ace and then let go entirely, eyes wide, smile spreading even wider as he realized he was still in the air. They both were.

“Ace, we—I—”

“See? I told you!” Ace was letting himself sink down further, barely hovering more than a few inches from the ground before landing in front of Peter and Gene. “I told you, just like a baby.”

“Gene! Gene, look, I’m doing it!”

Gene still had his arms out, hovering half-remembered, as if part of him still thought Paul was about to fall. He didn’t get a single word out before Paul dove down straight toward him, gathering Gene up in his arms and lifting him into the air with him, gradually higher and higher, laughing softly, excitedly. Peter half-expected Gene to start screaming, or at least be clutching Paul for dear life, but he wasn’t. The higher up Paul took him, the more relaxed Gene seemed to get. The looser their grip on each other became. Gene’s arms went from around Paul’s waist to up around his shoulders—then, finally, just as it was getting harder for Peter to get a detailed look, Gene caught Paul’s hands in his own. 

Both of them flying now.

Peter watched them, shaking his head a little, for a few seconds more. They’d land eventually. It took him a bit—it took Ace tugging at his sleeve—before he looked down again. There was a weird winsomeness to Ace’s expression, almost a longing, that made something in Peter itch and ache all at once. But then it faded nearly as soon as it appeared, and Ace’s old, sleepy-eyed grin was back on his face.

“Your turn, Cat. Get your heels on.” He winked. “Don’t worry, I got a whole other rooftop for us to jump off of.”

\--

Ace had teleported him as soon as he'd yanked on his boots. Peter knew where they were almost before he’d opened his eyes. Almost like a bottom of the barrel sense. Or maybe it was just the connection bullshit, letting him dig into Ace’s mind without even wanting to. But Peter didn’t think that was all of it. He could recognize this place anywhere. Anytime. The oldest of their stomping grounds as a band. Jimi Hendrix’s old studio in Greenwich Village. The  _ Electric Lady _ .

They’d never done a photoshoot on the roof or anything. There wasn’t even much physical evidence left that they’d been there at all, besides the records themselves. Just a couple photos from their own albums, mostly, that had gotten scattered like confetti across the internet. Photos from those early, early recording sessions, when they were four nobodies that occasionally drove cabs and taught school and fought petty crime. When they weren’t much better than four kids.

The memories themselves were so intoxicating they were painful. It wasn’t just where they’d first recorded. It was where Peter had first met up with Gene and Paul, before he’d even auditioned for KISS. That made the  _ Electric Lady _ almost sacrosanct even when he felt most embittered about the band, about the guys. And he wasn’t alone in his sentimentality. Gene and Paul had continued to record there occasionally in the early eighties, too, unable to avoid their own nostalgia.

Peter sat down on the roof, letting his legs dangle off the edge. Ace did, too, swinging them back and forth over the side like a little kid. They sat there in silence at first, watching the people, the traffic. The old, harried energy of Greenwich Village was gone. The weirdness, the newness. The hope.

“It’s not like it was,” Peter said finally.

“You think it was gonna be?”

“No, but I wanted it to be.”

Ace crooked a small smile.

“Y’know, back… aw, hell, it was probably five, six years after the Reunion tour… I was talking to Bobby.”

“You made up with him after that shitty book he wrote?”

“Kind of. It went sour again, dunno.” Ace paused. “Anyway, I was talking to him, and he said to me, he said, ‘Paul, you won’t believe it, I climbed a telephone pole the other day.’”

“The fuck did he do that for?”

“That’s exactly what I asked him. Word for fucking word.” A short, eerie laugh. “He said, ‘to prove I still could.’ He had to’ve been at least fifty then… fifty and climbing telephone poles. I thought it was stupid. But here I am, sixty-eight and—”

“Sixty-eight and flying is pretty good, Ace, I gotta say.”

Ace laughed a little longer.

“Yeah, well. S’like with anything else, all I need is a little motivation.” He was starting to lean his shoulder against Peter’s, just a bit, casual and easy. Pointing at the people going by, the cars going by. “It could be the same. You just gotta squint pretty hard. Get rid of the gentrification and shit… stick the kids in bell bottoms…”

“Can’t do it.”

“Sure, you can.”

“It’s gone, Ace. Can’t bring it back.”

“You can try.”

“Nah. Don’t it make you wanna go home, now,” Peter half-sang under his breath, “don’t it make you wanna go home—”

“All God’s children get weary when they roam,” Ace kept on with the old Joe South chorus, tuneless as always, “God, how I wanna go home… didja have that record, Pete? I had the 45 way back …”

“Lydia’d only give me a three-buck allowance, Ace, what do you think?” Peter laughed quietly. 

“Three bucks? You told me it was a dollar-fifty, man!” Ace shook his head. “Shit, and poor Paulie always bringing you by sandwiches back then ’cause he thought you really were a starving fucking musician—”

“Hey, I didn’t ask for those—"

“I know. He was real sweet. Still is, you just gotta give him a minute to relax.”

“Or five years.” It came out more aggressively than Peter meant it to, and he glanced away, staring at the streets beneath them. Half-full like all the rest of the world. Even the cars looked dismal. None of that toked-up brightness he remembered, none of that hope. The part-time cabbies replaced by Uber drivers, the flowerchildren turned geriatric and bitter with the passage of time. He shook his head.

“Don’t take that long. Just takes being gentle. Gene’s always been real gentle with Paul.” Ace said it without any real rancor. Just matter-of-fact. 

“Gentle, my ass. You mean he lets Paul do whatever the fuck he wants. Fucking bends over for him anytime, every time—”

Ace snickered.

“Didn’t used to—”

“Jesus, Ace, don’t remind me.” Peter winced as if the memory of it was really so awful. Or awful at all. He’d never actually witnessed that much out of Paul and Gene back in the seventies. They’d been about as exclusive as rabbits in heat, anyway. What they’d had, what they still had, Peter didn’t envy. “Doesn’t it piss you off?”

“Nah.” Ace shrugged. “Wouldn’t know what to do if somebody treated me like that. I used to think Gene was trying to make up for something, y’know?” 

“He is.”

Ace shrugged again. Peter let the silence hang in the air for a moment or two before changing the subject.

“Hey, Ace?”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s say this all works out and we bring everybody back. What’re we really gonna do after? Where are we gonna go?”

“Jen—”

“No, really.” Peter paused. His throat felt sticky. “Where are we going to live?”

“Pete, we both got a couple million in the bank, we ain’t gonna be homeless—”

“I know we ain’t gonna be homeless, but we ain’t all gonna be living under the same roof anymore, either.”

Ace’s brow started to furrow up.

“I dunno.”

“What if Paul and Gene want to move back to Beverly Hills with their families? We couldn’t afford it out there.” The disparity between their incomes hadn’t been a big deal in five years, with all their relatively communal living. Especially at first, Gene had taken it upon himself to cover most of the expenditures. Then, once Paul had his bearings back enough to at least glance at legal documents long enough to scribble his signature on them, the two of them had mostly split everything in half. Everything but groceries and gas, really. To Peter, it hadn’t felt like they were living off of someone else’s charity, not at all. But in the real world, in a world back to the way it was… “What we’ve got here is gonna go away.”

“Nah, it won’t.” Ace sounded more self-assured than Peter could readily believe. “You think all it’ll take is us not living together to split us up? Shit, Peter, before the last couple years, we only lived together on the road, and—”

“That’s different, though!”

“’S not.” Stretching out, Ace looked over at Peter, brown eyes focused laser-sharp on his face. “We don’t all got a bond because we’re all in the same house. We don’t got a bond because of the talismans, either. We got a bond because—”

“I know.”

Ace’s lips pursed.

“I—”

Peter reached a hand out, catching Ace’s before he could finish. Ace’s expression tensed, then started to soften, slowly, almost imperceptibly. He nodded, and before long, they both stood up, there on the roof of the  _ Electric Lady _ , there in six-inch heels and leather, hands still clasped.

“You ready, Cat?” Ace started to smile. “I got you no matter what.”

“’M not afraid of heights,” Peter muttered. “You wanna do a countdown?”

“Nah, you make the time—”

“One, two—three—”

Peter felt the brief, awful lurch of falling for hardly a second at best. Then he was hovering, buoyed up by—he didn’t even know. All he knew was the sharpness of the breeze searing through his skin, blowing back his hair. All he felt was that wonderful weightlessness, that ease, trickling down his spine, heady as a glass of champagne. Unreal. 

Ace’s hand tightened around his.

“You gonna fly, Peter, or are we just gonna hang around here?”

Peter only yanked him up with him. Ace’s cackles seemed to soar to the heavens, up and up as they flew higher. Story after story. The people below, and then the buildings, got dimmer and dimmer, blurring out beneath them into pavement gray, each skyscraper like a glittering stalagmite pushing up to the surface as the afternoon sun shot through.


End file.
